My relatives flit in and out of my good graces so quickly, they’ve probably racked up some kind of frequent flyer miles by now. I thought my youngest daughter was ahead of the pack until Monday, when her card was the last one to arrive in the mail for the anniversary of my deceased wife. They all know NEVER to forget of course, but she obviously took her time with the postage. Any later and she’d have missed it by a day! If Melbourne writers of last wills and testaments weren’t so frequent around the home, I’d be in such a bit of strife. After all, this is basic stuff, and if they can’t keep up then they should get out of the frying pan. Is that the phrase? And into the fire…I suppose it works. The fire of my wrath, while the frying pan is a metaphor. They’re all dancing sausages, spitting and hissing at each other while they vy for my approval. And I’m the chef, turning them over to see if they’re properly cooked…or just pink in the middle, deceiving me so that I get some kind of food poisoning!
That last bit is particularly apt. They might think they’ve put me up in a really nice nursing home, but the food they serve is far too predictable. Mash every Wednesday, fish and chips every Friday night, and one time they just served mash with mincemeat inside and called it ‘hash’. I don’t care if it’s doused in lobster sauce, it’s still just a recycled meal!
Anyway…I have some efficient Melbourne lawyers who know estate planning and succession, at least. They’ll let me know if I need to make revision, or how to slice a person out, or put them back in, or how to slice them out THEN put them back in but in a way that makes them think that they’re out for good. That way I get to see how they react, and adjust accordingly…
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